


Few Against the Wind

by juniperandjawbones



Series: Few Against the Wind [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alienages (Dragon Age), City Elf (Dragon Age) Origin, City Elf Culture and Customs, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Racism, Warden Tabris (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21584998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniperandjawbones/pseuds/juniperandjawbones
Summary: An elven barmaid from the Denerim slums and the bastard son of a lost king are all that remains of the once-great order of warriors and protectors, the only ones standing between Thedas and the Blight.What can one Grey Warden do? Save the fucking world, if pressed.**Disclaimer: BioWare owns the world of Thedas, most of the characters you will meet in my fics, and also my whole entire soul. I just come here to play.**
Relationships: Alistair/Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Series: Few Against the Wind [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549087
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. The Turning of the Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not a play-along and will focus mostly on the relationships between the party members and the moments in between canon that the game doesn't show us. It begins the night before the events of the City Elf origin and will hopefully continue through the end of the game and into the events of Inquisition.

_“Not all shems are the enemy.”_

Adaia Tabris’s words echoed in her daughter’s mind as she sat atop a barrel in the storeroom at the Cask and Flagon, the dingy tavern where she made her living, situated between the Denerim alienage and the market district. The taste of copper met her tongue, prompting her to swipe her wrist over her lip. It came back smeared with blood.

Not all shems, perhaps. But certainly most.

The door to the storeroom creaked open and a man of middling age with a bald head and a scrubby salt-and-pepper beard entered, shooting her a disgruntled glare as he closed it again behind him.

“I think I finally managed to calm down the mob. But Arienne, you can’t just go around punching the customers.”

She could feel the tips of her pointed ears growing hot with anger as she straightened. “Not even if they try to grab a handful of my _ass?”_

The man folded his arms over his chest. _“No,_ not even then.”

Ari leaped off the barrel, her boots raising a puff of sawdust as they hit the floor. A splinter of rough wood snagged the back of her skirt for a brief moment before she yanked the fabric away, leaving behind a smudge of blood that stood out against the cream-colored linen.

“That’s horse shit!” she argued, her voice rising as her grey eyes narrowed. The man made a downward motion with his palms, hissing a _“Shhhh!”_ from between his teeth, but Ari pressed on loudly. “No, Grady, I _won’t_ be quiet! Those bastards are always harassing the barmaids, and me worst of all. I’m sick to death of it, I won’t be pawed at by a bunch of boorish drunks! If you won’t do something about it, _I_ sure as hell will. If they don’t like it, they can go f—”

“Arienne, _please,”_ he interrupted, stepping closer to her and holding up his hands. She instinctively took a step back. “You have to calm down. If you get them all riled up again, they’ll just start more trouble. Neither of us wants that.”

She scowled, and the twisting of her lip shot a sharp pain through the little wound where it had split, a souvenir from the hard smack she’d been given by one of the men for daring to defend herself against their wandering hands. A fresh dribble of blood ran over her mouth.

Grady tutted, reached into the pocket of his apron, and handed her a clean rag. She begrudgingly took it, pressing it to her mouth. A stain blossomed over the well-worn cloth, blooming like a red rose. 

“Look,” the barman continued, “the tavern is struggling as it is. The last thing I need is some angry sod getting the city watch involved because a barmaid knocked him in the dirt. You know I had to let go of two of the newer girls last week? Well, now we’re short-handed, so the men have to wait longer for their drinks, which makes them a might impatient, I’ll grant you. But you’ll notice I didn’t let _you_ go. I could’ve, you know. You take off early and you’ve got a smart mouth, but I chose to keep you on because the men like having an elf around. Which means you get to keep your job, so long as you can keep your temper.”

“I leave early because there’s a _mandated curphew_ , Grady, not because I don’t want the work.”

 _Or the extra tips_ , she thought to herself. The later it got, the drunker the tavern’s patrons became, and the looser their they were with their coin. The Cask and Flagon’s other barmaids—all of whom were shems—got to reap the benefits of that. Meanwhile, _she_ got to walk home in the dark with the other elves of the city, shuffling back the alienage with guards from the watch following behind at a distance, herding them like cattle back inside their fence. “And the men only like having me around because they get to ogle me like some exotic, caged animal and grope my backside without any repercussions.”

“What do you want me to do, call the guard on him?” he scoffed. “You know the law, they’d never side with an elf.”

“So they get to do what they please and I just have to take it?”

Grady shrugged. “It’s a living, Ari. And it beats scrubbing some nobleman’s dirty drawers in a wash house or working at The Pearl. You want to keep earning your wages, you’ll have to learn to grin through it.”

Ari tossed the rag back in his face before crossing the room with three long, angry strides and grabbing her traveling cloak from a hook near the door.“Fuck you, Grady!” she called without looking back.

She was halfway through the exit and into the darkened alleyway when he’d managed to remove the bloodied cloth from his bald head, his face beet-red with indignation as he shouted after her.

“Fine, then! Try your luck elsewhere, see if it’s any better for you. But don’t you come crawling back to me when you find out it isn’t!”

He slammed the door, and Ari rolled her eyes as she trudged through the muddy back streets, gingerly touching the tip of her tongue to her tender lip. As if she’d ever _want_ to come back. It had been a job, sure, but judging from the dwindling number of coins in the till each night, probably not for much longer, anyway.

And besides, Grady was an absolute horse’s ass. He was the type of shem to hire you and then brag to his friends about what a saint he was to take pity on the poor downtrodden elves by giving one of them a job, conveniently leaving out the part about paying you a full silver less per week than the other barmaids. No, he’d never call you knife-ear to your face, but she’d bet sovereigns to sugar cakes that he had no problem saying it behind her back. He was probably doing it right now, bragging about how he'd thrown her out for her insubordination, and good riddance!

Ari turned her head upward to look at the sky, pulling the cloak closer around herself as she walked. Judging by the moon’s low position, she still had an hour before the bells would ring for curfew.

She considered milling about the market for a while so she could arrive home with the rest of the elven workers who’d been allowed out into the city. It would mean avoiding her father’s inevitable questions about why she was home at such an early hour, but she ultimately decided against it after giving it some thought. No doubt some busybody would spot her and inquire about why she wasn’t at her place of employment, and the last thing she wanted tonight was more attention from shems. Besides that, it looked like they were in for an unseasonably cold night for late spring, and she longed for the warmth of the hearth and a mug of brewed tea.

Denerim’s alienage was quiet this time of night. Most of her kinfolk who didn’t have jobs outside the walls would have already supped and would now be spending their remaining hours finishing nightly chores or, if they were fortunate enough to have some spare time, perhaps sitting by the fire to stitch a new shirt or play a game of cards. She wound through the narrow streets, past buildings full of shabby tenement flats and rundown storefronts until she reached her home.

The two-story rowhouse she shared with her father was old and dated, but comparatively well-cared-for, and the inside was neat as a new pin—with the exception of Ari’s own bedroom, which was constantly in a state of chaos. A large black tomcat lay huddled up on the porch, and as soon as he heard her footsteps approaching, he lifted his head with an expectant chirp and trotted down the steps toward her. Winding around her ankles as she tried to climb the stairs to the entrance, he mewed pitifully and then dashed inside as soon as she opened the door.

“Don’t let the cat in!” called her father’s voice.

“Too late,” she replied in a singsong voice, hanging her cloak and kicking off her boots, which she left in a heap by the door.

Cyrion Tabris was seated in a worn old armchair by the fire, wearing a pair of thick spectacles and darning a sock. “Animals are meant to stay outdoors,” he told her, not looking up from his work as she entered the room.

“It’s cold,” she countered, and she watched as the cat made himself comfortable on the threadbare hearthrug, curling into a fat black ball and wrapping his tail over his nose like a knitted muffler.

Her father let out a sigh with an expression that hinted at amused resignation, shaking his head. “I was going to have some fish stew heated up for you when you got home. Did the curfew bell ring already? I don’t recall hearing it, but it wouldn’t be the first time my evening got away from me.”

She looked away, fidgeting with the cloth of her skirt. “Erm… no, actually. It hasn’t rung yet. I’m home early.”

This must have caught his full attention because he looked up from the sock for the first time. His mouth fell open as he noticed her face.“Is that blood on your lip, Arienne?” He set down his things and stood, walking over and taking her chin in his hand to inspect it further. “Your skin is bruising. Are you all right? What happened?”

Ari relayed the story, albeit with a few careful substitutions of language on her part, watching as her father’s expression turned from concern to anger, and then from anger to a look of mingled sadness and understanding. He moved to the kitchen sink and pumped water onto a washrag, then crossed back to her and pressed it gently against her lip.

“You are your mother’s daughter, through and through,” he told her, smoothing her long golden hair with his other hand. The cloth felt soothing and cool against the hot, angry wound.

“Sometimes, when you tell me that, I can’t tell if it’s meant as a compliment or not,” she answered, meeting the gaze of his steely blue eyes.

He gave her half a smile. “She would be proud of you for standing up for yourself,” he conceded. “I just wish you didn’t have her same propensity for finding trouble.”

“It’s not my fault those drunken idiots can’t keep their hands to themselves,” she argued.

“No, Ari. You're right. It’s not.”

She let out a frustrated groan. “Ugh, but where am I going to find work now?”

“You mean now that you’ve gone and solidified the Tabris family reputation for getting into fights with shems?” he asked, and she could swear there was a hint of a smile and a knowing sparkle in his eyes. “Don’t worry about that tonight. You might find that it’s not an issue for long.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she asked in a suspicious tone, arching her eyebrow, but he waved his hand dismissively, avoiding the question.

“Never you mind just now. Come on, let’s warm you up some of that stew.”

Ari picked at the food, moving it around in the bowl without eating much. It wasn’t that it didn’t taste good—Cyrion was an excellent cook, and normally by the time she came home from the tavern she was feeling ravenous. Tonight, however, all of the commotion seemed to have deflated her appetite, and it was awkward and painful to eat with the cut on her lip. She dug around with her spoon, plucked out a juicy hunk of meat, and held it out to the cat, who had been eyeing her dinner hungrily. He gave it a sniff, then pulled it off the spoon with his teeth and wolfed it down in one gulp.

Cyrion cleared his throat, and Ari looked up to see him giving her a disapproving look over the wire rim of his spectacles. “I don’t buy fish for the _cat._ ”

“Weren’t you the one who always told me the foundation of life in the alienage was cooperation, and that sharing builds community?”

“I told you that when you were a little girl and you refused to share with Shianni. Letting your cousin play with your toys was one thing. Feeding scraps to a stray—”

Ari covered the cat’s ears with her hand. “Baba! Shartan’s not a _stray_ , he’s _our_ _cat._ And he looked so hungry.”

“Well,” her father countered good-naturedly, “then he should be a better mouser. Isn’t that why you convinced me we should take him in, in the first place? How’s he supposed to earn his keep if he’s getting fat off your supper?”

She gave him a theatrical glare, turning her chin up indignantly as she stood and picked up the cat, who hung limply in her arms, his large stomach protruding as he licked his snow-white whiskers.

“Come on, Shartan. We don’t have to sit here and listen to this slander. We’re going to bed.”

Cyrion chuckled at her dramatics, bidding her good night as she went up the creaking wooden steps to her room. She lit the little candle on her bedside table, added her clothes to the pile already occupying a corner of the room, and then flopped back onto the mattress in her nightdress. Heaving a sigh, she stared up at the ceiling. The paint was old, cracked and peeling from years of harsh sunlight and the drastic temperature changes permitted by the rowhouse's drafty windows.

She thought back to the day long ago when she and her mother had painted it together—a deep blue background dotted with scattered white daubs to mimic stars and constellations. The ceilings in the house were far from high, but at eight years old, they’d seemed much taller. Her father had given her a boost, standing with her perched on his shoulders, a paintbrush clutched between her little fingers as she and Adaia carefully dotted the night sky into existence.

A stinging sensation burned behind her eyes at the memory, and she rolled to one side, blowing out the candle and sending the room into darkness. She pulled the covers up to her chin. A sudden weight on the edge of the mattress told her that the cat had jumped up onto the bed, and soon he had burrowed himself beneath the blanket, sliding under her arm. He purred, vibrating warmly against her chest, and before long, they were both fast asleep.

Dawn arrived without her notice, and it was late morning before she was awoken by the sound of her door bursting open and a pair of feet hurrying into the room.

“Wake up, cousin!” urged a familiar, excited voice. She blinked open her eyes to see her cousin Shianni standing over her, beaming. “Why are you still in bed? It’s your big day!”


	2. A Sliver of Fear

It had taken Duncan and his new recruit longer to return to Ostagar than they had anticipated—the only thing the old Warden would say about it was that there had been “unexpected delays”—and it had given Alistair plenty of time to build up hope that whoever he was bringing along would prove more promising than the other two potential Wardens he’d been sharing camp with.

Ser Jory was all right, he supposed. He’d worked for Arl Eamon for a time and had the fighting experience they needed, but sweet Maker, was he ever a complainer. Then there was Daveth, who seemed to have the right attitude but was little more than a petty street criminal, and it wasn’t as though pickpocketing hurlocks was going to stop the Blight.

He kept these feelings to himself, of course. He trusted that the veteran Warden had reason for choosing to recruit these men, but part of him did privately wonder how much of that reason was sheer desperation. Given the circumstances, he wasn’t sure what sort of person would accompany Duncan back to camp, but he definitely hadn’t expected anyone like Arienne Tabris.

For one, she was... well, a _she_.

He knew there were female Wardens—some quite famous throughout the history of the order, in fact—but they weren’t what you’d call prevalent, and he’d never met one in person. If what Duncan had told him about her ability to fight was true, he certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it felt strange to have a woman around after so many weeks of spending time almost exclusively in the company of men, aside from a handful of Chantry sisters and a rather matronly older mage stationed with them at the ruins.

He couldn’t help but feel as though they now needed to be on their best behavior with Arienne in their number. He must not have been the only one, either, because he noticed a sharp decline in the amount of slurping and burping around the fire at mealtimes after she arrived.

She was also an elf, which again wasn’t unheard of in the order, but still a bit unusual. Duncan had recruited her from the Denerim alienage—one of the most destitute elven populations in Ferelden, Alistair knew. She’d arrived wearing clothing that appeared to have been repaired several times over, her tunic and leggings patched and worn, and the hem of her traveling cloak double-stitched in places where it had clearly come undone a time or two.

What had taken him aback most of all, though, however silly it may have sounded, was how incredibly _beautiful_ she was. It had been the first thing that had popped into his head when she’d found him to introduce herself the night she’d arrived, before he’d realized who she was.

 _What could such a lovely creature be doing in a place like this?_ he’d wondered as she approached, taking in her wide, pale grey eyes and the long blonde hair that she’d tied back at her nape. Several silver rings glinted along the edges of her pointed ears, and another decorated her nostril. She’d smiled at him a little, her full lips curving upward into a friendly grin as she walked toward him, and he’d actually felt his breath catch a little in his lungs. She looked utterly out of place against a backdrop of crumbling Tevinter ruins and filthy, exhausted, battle-worn soldiers.

 _That face,_ he thought to himself, _is far too pretty for Ostagar._

And yet, here she was now, sitting next to him in front of the fire, taking a tentative bite of the bland mutton stew he’d prepared for the Wardens’ dinner. For a fraction of a second, her mouth twisted into the ghost of the frown, but she recovered quickly and glanced over to see him giving her an expectant look.

“Well?” he asked. “How is it?”

She chewed the bite in silence and waited until she’d swallowed it to give him a polite smile. “It’s… not bad.” One of the other men snorted, and she cleared her throat, giving a conciliatory shrug. “I suppose perhaps it could use a bit more seasoning.”

“Or any at _all_ ,” Daveth added. His remark was met by a low rumble of laughter from the other men. Even Duncan smirked a little underneath his beard.

“It’s okay,” Alistair said, grinning at her. “You don’t need to spare my feelings. I know I’m rubbish at it. It’s a wonder everyone doesn’t up and desert when it’s my turn to cook.”

“When’s it her turn?” asked Ser Jory, gesturing toward Arienne. “Be good to eat something with flavor for once.”

“And what, pray tell, makes you think _I_ know how to cook?” Ari asked, giving him a pointed look. “For all you know, I could be worse than Alistair.”

Jory’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just… people like you usually know their way around a kitchen.”

“People like me?” She raised her eyebrows. “And by that, do you mean women? Or elves?”

The other men were quiet, watching Jory’s reaction. He mumbled something unintelligible before busying himself with his stew.

 _“Are_ you worse than Alistair?” asked Daveth, breaking the awkward silence.

A smirk curled her lips. “No.”

“Not as though that means much, though, does it?” Alistair broke in. “I’ve set the bar _very_ low. You're welcome.” This earned him another round of appreciative laughter before the other men broke into conversations amongst themselves, most talking about the upcoming battle.

Arienne leaned to the side, toward Alistair. “Rosemary, thyme, and salt, for the record,” she said.

“Hmm?” asked the young Warden around a mouthful of food.

She gestured at the pot hanging over the fire. “The stew. That’s what it needs. And some more onion wouldn’t hurt.”

Alistair swallowed. “Oh," he replied. "I see. Well, thank you for that tip. I’ll have to try to remember that next time it’s my turn to feed the troops.”

She nodded, returning to her own bowl.

“So, erm… how was the journey?” he asked after a moment.

“Could’ve been worse, I guess,” she replied, shrugging as she chewed. “I had to kill my first darkspawn on the way here. We ran into a pair of them scouting around as we came out of the hills.” She paused, staring at the hunks of lumpy brown meat swimming in her stew. “They’re terrifying. You hear about them all your life, the same tired old stories people tell to scare each other, but not one of them have ever seen one. None of it prepares you for the real thing.”

“No,” he agreed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t.”

She turned to meet his gaze, the dancing orange firelight reflected in her eyes. “Still, better to get my first time out of the way before the big battle, I suppose. If I was going to wet my pants, Duncan would probably want to know sooner rather than later.”

He grinned, that expectant look on his face again. “And?”

“And what?”

 _“Did_ you wet your pants?”

She snorted, digging a soggy cube of potato out of her bowl. “You’ll be pleased to hear that I did not.”

He watched her chew for a moment, then asked, “What happened to your lip?”

“You can still see it, eh?” she asked, reaching up with a finger to touch the thin line of pink tissue that intersected the outline of her mouth. “Probably going to have a scar, then. _Wonderful.”_

“Was that a little parting gift from the darkspawn?”

She laughed. “No, but maybe I should say it was. Doubtless, it would be a better story.” She shook her head, jabbing rather more forcefully than necessary at a hunk of mutton.

“If you’d rather not talk about it, that’s fine.”

“It’s not that. It just seems so insignificant now.” She took a deep breath, rolling her eyes. “I used to work in this tavern in Denerim, near the markets. The customers were mostly men, and all sh—” She cut off in the middle of the word, then corrected herself, glancing at him. “Sorry. All _humans_. Anyway, one of them got a bit handsy with me while I was serving his drinks, so I sort of… punched him in the face.”

Alistair looked impressed. “That was well-deserved, from the sounds of it.”

“Yes, only he didn’t seem to agree. When he got up, he back-handed me and split my lip.”

His expression darkened. “Do you know this gentleman's name?” he asked. “Next time I’m in Denerim, I might like to look him up. Just to have a little _chat,_ you know...”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “You’re sweet. But he’s not worth the trouble, honestly. Besides, he has to bear the eternal shame of being publicly knocked on his ass by a she-elf.”

Alistair mirrored the grin she was giving him. “Maybe it’ll make him think twice next time about touching someone who doesn’t want to be touched.”

She let out a humorless huff of laughter and went back to her stew. “Somehow I doubt that. In my experience, most men seem to feel quite entitled to simply take what they want from women. Especially ones with pointy ears.”

“Well, those men are _garbage,”_ he told her firmly. “And I promise you, nothing like that is going to happen on my watch.”

She glanced up and gave him another polite and—if he wasn’t mistaken—somewhat strained smile, then promptly changed the subject. “So I hear you’re taking us out into the Korcari Wilds first thing tomorrow?”

He furrowed his brow. “Oh? And who told you that?”

“Daveth.”

Alistair sighed. “He was eavesdropping again, was he? Typical. Well, it’s true. We are going into the Wilds.”

“And this has something to do with our initiation?”

He gave her a sidelong glance, hesitating. “We’re… not really supposed to discuss it with recruits.”

“Why so secretive?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m starting to feel like we ought to be afraid of this ritual, or whatever it is.”

He didn’t answer, focusing rather intently on the last few bites of his dinner instead, though his stomach was now roiling and his appetite had all but disappeared.

Duncan had warned him not to get too attached to the recruits, and Alistair knew all too well what the ritual entailed. He’d survived it himself, after all. He couldn’t help it, though—he genuinely _liked_ Arienne. She wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself, she was tough and outspoken, and by all accounts, she would be an asset to their order on the battlefield.

He barely knew her, but the more he talked to her, the more worried he became about the outcome of the ritual. He’d seen it kill men better and stronger than himself. It didn’t discriminate. He’d had luck on his side the day of his Joining, it had seemed. Would fortune favor her, as well?

“Does it hurt?” Arienne’s voice cut across his thoughts.

“What?” he asked, looking up from his food.

“Does it hurt?” repeated Arienne. “This ritual thing.”

Suddenly, the smell of the stew made him feel as though he was going to be sick. Avoiding her eye, he let his spoon drop into the bowl and stood.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he told her quietly, and he left without another word, willing himself not to turn back and look at that beautiful, worried face again.


End file.
